


The Wake and the War Drums

by tuesday



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Drunk Sex, Dubious Consent, Episode Tag, M/M, unhappily ever after
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-04-09
Updated: 2010-04-09
Packaged: 2017-10-08 19:54:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/78971
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tuesday/pseuds/tuesday
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"If we're going to do this," Dean said, and he ignored that there was no real if there, "we're going to need a bed."  (5x17 coda.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Wake and the War Drums

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to Shirozora for audiencing most of this and to Jmtorres for the, as always, kick-ass beta. This is an episode tag for 5x17 and is labeled dubious consent for drunk sex and Dean's headspace. Thanks as always to the Campfire fen for the group episode watch, which makes the show bearable in all its ups and downs.

"It's called GPS," came Castiel's voice from directly behind him, and Dean turned in time to take the few steps back to hem himself in against his damn car, because apparently Dean just couldn't live without being trapped in metaphorical corners. "Sam explained that all modern cell phones come equipped with it."

"You're not going to change my mind," Dean warned.

Castiel's answering glare was kind of epic, but Dean was serious. He was fully prepared to give in, but not on this.

"No," Castiel said, pushing Dean hard against the side of the Impala. "I won't allow this."

"Cas —" Dean said.

"No," Castiel said again, low and angry. "You spoke of abandonment, of 'dead-beat dads.' You _know_ that I have nothing left —"

"_Cas_ —"

" —nothing but you."

Castiel's hands were warm framing Dean's face, his breath hot against Dean's mouth and smelling strongly like he'd gargled the contents of an entire distillery. Castiel's lips were hard and angry against Dean's mouth. It was apparent Castiel had little practical experience in this, and it was just as apparent that he didn't care, that he wasn't going to let that stop him or even slow him down. He bit at Dean's lower lip, then swiped his tongue in Dean's mouth, against his teeth and along his gums. The Impala was cold against Dean's back, and Dean banged his elbow against the door scrabbling for purchase. Castiel's knee interposed itself between Dean's legs, his hips bumping against Dean's own.

Dean couldn't help himself. He made a small, desperate sound and pressed back, hands buried in Castiel's hair, unexpectedly soft against his fingers. He met Castiel's tongue with his own, spread his legs wide as if to invite Castiel in. Castiel's hands grabbed Dean's hips, fingers digging in so hard Dean knew they'd leave marks, knew he'd feel it in the morning. His jeans skidded against the car as Castiel lifted him, and Dean was rarely in this position, but his body remembered, and his legs hooked automatic and thoughtless around Castiel's waist. Castiel held Dean with one hand as he pushed at Dean's jacket with the other, and Dean took the hint and ran with it, pushing off the jacket and pulling his shirt over his head. The night air was a shock of cold against Dean's bare skin, but it was difficult to care when Cas was licking and biting at Dean's chest, leaving future bruises in the shape of his teeth.

"Fuck." Dean let his head fall back against the Impala's roof, and the spark of pain was just another bright flash among a sky full of fireworks.

There was the soft sound of leather sliding against denim as Castiel discarded Dean's belt, then the clear _zip_ of Castiel undoing Dean's pants. "Wait," Dean said, breathless and shaky and absolutely certain this was a terrible idea.

"What," Castiel grated out, and he was fucking _glowering_ at Dean like Dean was slow at getting ready to defend a seal or said something against his search for God or was a few words and a few hours away from giving in on the whole Michael sword issue. It was the sort of look that said _My patience is wearing thin, so talk fast and don't ask any stupid questions_.

"If we're going to do this," Dean said, and he ignored that there was no real if there, "we're going to need a bed."

—

If someone had told Dean he'd spend his last real night on Earth breaking into a motel room with an angel because said angel was too damn impatient to bother checking in —

Well, okay, Dean would've believed whoever the fuck might've had the foresight, but only because Dean's life was really fucking weird these days. Dean wondered, briefly, if Chuck had seen this, was sitting at his desk drinking whiskey straight from the bottle, staring at his computer screen, and deciding whether to let his girlfriend know he'd broken her —what was it? —"one true pairing." Dean huffed a bitter laugh, and Castiel dug his teeth into Dean's shoulder and said, "Pay attention."

"Make me," Dean said tightly.

Castiel jerked his hand around Dean's dick, too tight, and Dean hissed as he rode the line between pleasure and pain. Castiel licked the mark on Dean's shoulder, tongue pressing in hard, and it was nothing like an apology. "I will make you orgasm so hard," Castiel promised darkly, "that you forget your own name." Implicit in that promise was that Dean would also forget whatever stupid plan he'd concocted after Heaven kicked them back out and God said _no_.

"Looking forward to it," Dean said, and this was actually true. It was last call, and Dean had every intention of downing his drink, because he certainly couldn't take it with him.

"I need something slick," Castiel said, "for lubrication."

"There's lotion in the trunk," Dean said.

"What about protection?" Castiel asked carefully, like he was trying on the words for the first time and finding them an uncomfortable fit. Apparently that safe sex talk had stuck after all.

"Don't need it," Dean said, meaning it on entirely too many levels. Castiel was still enough of an angel it wouldn't matter, and Dean was already fucked. It was just a matter of acknowledging it now.

Castiel's lips thinned with displeasure, and he leaned in so close Dean could feel each word as a warm breath of air against his ear. "I'll be your last, Dean Winchester, but I will not accept it for any reason but that I've ruined you for all others."

Dean laughed again, and it felt like shards of glass rattling in his chest. He confessed, "You already have."

Castiel was gone less than thirty seconds, and Dean didn't want to know how he'd gotten into the trunk without the key. The Impala was one more broken thing he couldn't bear thinking about, and Castiel made that avoidance easy by stripping in quick, efficient motions, like undressing was a task set before him by a higher power. If this were any other time, Dean would lecture Cas on the sexy nature of the strip tease and how what Castiel was doing was _nothing like that_, but —

It was good enough, Dean thought, for now. It wasn't like they had all the time in the world.

"Remove your boxers," Castiel said. Dean smiled like Castiel's too intent gaze wasn't killing him here and followed orders. It was surprisingly easy to lie back and let someone else drive. The bed shifted under Castiel's weight, and Dean shuddered at Castiel's palms skating against his thighs, his hips, his stomach, everywhere but where he wanted them to go. Castiel traced Dean's navel with his tongue, and Dean wondered if Chuck would fade gracefully to black, or if he'd write Michael's vessel taking it from an angel of the Lord. Castiel pinched Dean's thigh, and his voice was like gravel as he said, "I won't warn you again."

"Got a lot on my mind," Dean said, and he stared up at the ceiling, at a spreading watermark in the shape of six or more wings poised to take flight.

Castiel's finger was cold with lotion as it breached Dean's ass, and his muscles burned with the sudden shock. "Your level of participation is up to you," Castiel said, and from anyone else, that might sound worrisome, but Castiel just sounded flat and matter-of-fact, like he'd engage in enthusiastic fucking or fuck Dean as he lay there like an overly realistic Real Doll or wander away to find —and drink —another liquor store if Dean told him to fuck off.

Dean concentrated on relaxing his tense muscles, and he said, pointedly, "It's called a prostate, Cas."

Castiel's lips twitched in a way that could almost be classified as a smirk as he crooked his finger. Dean didn't —quite —flinch.

"I know the landscape of your body down to its atoms," Castiel said in reminder that yeah, he'd gripped Dean tight and raised him from Perdition to a body that was like new, and obviously Castiel was the likely candidate for the entity that had done the vehicular spring cleaning in preparation of Dean's renewed lease. Dean wondered if the new owner would mind that he'd dinged the doors, scratched the paint, poured the wrong oil in the engine, and taken it off-roading before handing it over. Castiel slid in a second finger.

When they finally made it past the prep work and Castiel slid in, his forehead pressed hot against Dean's, Castiel's fingers dug into Dean's hips like he intended to leave marks down to the bone. Dean felt at once full, and deeply, achingly empty, like there was a chasm in him that had no end, never quite bottomed out. When Castiel snapped his hips forward, Dean fisted his hands in the sheets and held on, but he felt like he was in free fall. Castiel was human enough to sweat now, and the sheen of his skin was a nice distraction, as was the play of his muscles in the dim light, and each brush of Castiel's dick against Dean's prostate, but it _wasn't enough_.

"Stay," Castiel said; he wasn't asking.

"Fuck," Dean said, and Castiel's intent stare, more than anything else, scraped something raw and painful lurking in Dean's chest. "I can't —"

"You can," Castiel said, because after all this, after everything, Castiel somehow still had _faith_ in Dean.

Dean closed his eyes, unable to bear that weight, and came with a cry like a sob. Sometime later, Castiel followed after, and Dean was barely aware of Castiel cleaning them off with Dean's shirt and sprawling out next to Dean in bed. At one point, Dean reached out to Castiel's chest, traced a hand to rest over Castiel's too steady heart, and he fell asleep with that beat like a drum pounding time against his hand.

—

In the morning, Dean shifted quietly out of bed, made use of his experience with countless walks of shame and awkward one night stands to not rustle the sheets or otherwise disturb Castiel's fragile, passed out slumber. Dean indulged himself only for a moment, stared down at Castiel's face tense as with pain for a few seconds. It didn't hurt as much as he was expecting, like in the night something in Dean had gone permanently numb. He left the Impala and his phones, anything they could track him by. He struck out left, down the road, then right, took turns at random, his only direction _away_. He hit a park and a weathered wooden bench and sat, because here was as good as anywhere else.

"Zachariah," Dean said, staring down at his hands, hands that had only hours before fit perfectly curved against Castiel's ribs. He looked up at the sound of feathers on the wind. "I'm ready, you sack of shit. Let's deal."


End file.
